


An unworthy substitute

by flowerdeluce



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Phone Sex, Smut Swap 2018, Smut Swap Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: The night before an important mission abroad, Harry receives a call from Eggsy.





	An unworthy substitute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> I really hope you enjoy this story and have a great Smut Swap 2018. Thank you for all your wonderful Kingsman fics!
> 
> This is vaguely set but could probably slot in quite nicely during Eggsy's Kingsman training. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta. You're the best.

“You arrive okay?” Eggsy asks the moment Harry picks up, before he can even say hello.

“In one piece,” Harry answers, glad of a familiar voice. Confessing the relatively short flight wore him out is a no-go, as Eggsy will only tease. “You’d like the hotel.”

“Guess where I am?”

“My place. I hope you are.” If he isn’t, he’ll miss the mission he’s due to observe live in the small hours of tomorrow. If Harry’s learnt anything about the boy’s habits since he’s been staying over more, it’s that Eggsy Unwin and mornings mix about as badly as beer and wine.

“Yeah, but guess where?”

He’ll play along, despite the jetlag. Talking to Eggsy is more entertaining than re-reading documents alone in his suite, anticipating tomorrow. Sinking back in the armchair, he sets aside his glasses, along with his responsibilities as a Kingsman. “Why?”

“’Cause it’s fun.”

Mentally running through a few scenarios dependent on each room, Harry anticipates where this might lead. “Living room?”

“Nope.”

“My study?”

“Nope.”

“Give me a clue.” If he’s on the bloody toilet…

“Top floor.”

There’s no echo, so not the en suite. It wouldn’t be the first time Eggsy had phoned from the bath, but on that occasion, he only called to say he’d forgotten a towel, which Harry had passed to him while politely averting his gaze. “My bedroom?”

“Yep. I’ve got your dressing gown on, that fancy blue one with the white bits. How often d’you wash it? It smells of you.”

“Often enough. Is that a bad thing?”

“Nah, s’nice.” After a pause, he asks what Harry is wearing, which is something of a cliché even for Eggsy. If he'd actually woken up when Harry was due to leave, when he'd opened the curtains and tried to coax him out of bed with a goodbye kiss, he'd know how Harry had dressed for the day.

“A suit.” A Kingsman suit which, for all its uses, is only convenient currently for the microphone sewn into the lapel buttonhole. If the hotel dressing gown hadn’t been quite so starchy, he’d be wearing that.

“Duh. Which one, though?” Despite his attempt at nonchalance, there is an almost imperceptible quality to his voice that betrays him in a way that only Harry would notice: he's desperately horny. It’s good to have the upper hand already.

“The Glen check.” Eggsy’s interest lies in what the Kingsman suits do over their design particulars, so Harry clarifies, “The grey one. Am I on loudspeaker?”

“Nope. You’re in my ears, turned right up. You know how sexy your voice is, right?”

“You have mentioned it.” And he never tires of hearing it. “Have you found a moment to practise with that surveillance software yet?” Work small talk will drive Eggsy crazy when he’s desperate for dialogue of a different kind.

“Yeah. What you up to?”

“I was going through the mission documents, brushing up on my Russian and thinking about going to bed. Now I’m on the phone with you.”

“D’you miss me?”

“I’ve barely been away from you for twenty-four hours.” He glances at his watch. It’s pretty close with the time difference.

Unoffended, Eggsy laughs. “So, there’s a time limit for missing me?”

“Not necessarily.” Admitting he misses Eggsy means he prefers the boy’s company to his own, all he’s ever known. He’s never taken a lover besides those work required; all of this is new, and he’d missed Eggsy before he’d taken five steps from his front door, a fact he will keep to himself.

“I’m missing you,” Eggsy confesses, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “And what we did last night.” His contented hum—which Harry wouldn’t have noticed if Eggsy’s voice wasn’t channelled directly into his earpiece—means he’s reminiscing about what they did. Now Harry is too, despite himself.

Warmth spreading through his chest, Harry asks, “So, is that why you phoned? To talk about last night?” He’s well aware Eggsy has no intention of talking about anything; all he wants to do is listen.

“Uh, maybe. That all right?”

“In theory.”

Impatient already, Eggsy finally owns up to what Harry has known all along: “I’m rock hard, Harry. My cock’s sticking out the gap in your dressing gown.” It’s quite the icebreaker.

He’s naked under the gown, then. There would be a lovely long strip of exposed skin down Eggsy’s front, a road Harry’s hand would travel deliberately slowly, wandering from the pale ridge of his Adam’s apple, all the way to the warm valley of his parted thighs. Picturing it, and the speedbump of Eggsy’s heavy cock, snug against the indent where his hip joins his thigh, slides the warmth in his chest a lot lower. “I see.”

“You wish. Should I touch it? What d’you think?”

“I think you’re a shameless tart.”

The excited gasp Eggsy makes is a sound that’s always been inextricably linked to Harry’s crotch. Voice strained, Eggsy asks, “What else you think?”

Harry thinks, no, Harry _knows_ Eggsy’s a sucker for words, insatiable for his praise and reassurance. He expects him to take control, to divert the ostensibly innocent phone call in a salacious direction. He thinks he’s an irresistible, wanton boy. But Eggsy’s not going to get his way. “You know precisely what I think.”

“Knowing’s different to hearing.”

“That’s why you should apprise me of how you got yourself into your current state, Eggsy, splayed out on my sheets, in my dressing gown” —he borrows Eggsy’s words— “rock hard.”

Another one of those crotch-connected gasps precedes a delighted groan from Eggsy. “Got my specs here. If I angle ‘em just right, you can watch me jack off if you want?”

Despite the appeal of Eggsy exhibiting himself, he isn’t backing down; if Eggsy wants to indulge in a dirty phone call at this time of night, he’ll have to work for it. “I prefer to use my imagination.”

“Why’s that then?”

“Imagination is a powerful tool. I like to keep mine sharp. And you haven’t answered my question.” Eggsy has probably forgotten it already, a puppy offered a second, shinier toy.

“So, d’you think about me wanking a lot, then?”

“I might.”

The almost-confession coaxes a laugh from Eggsy. It’s the laugh he affects when attempting to conceal arousal, disguising his excitement with a soft, sober snigger, convinced it sounds natural when he’s never once laughed like that outside the bedroom. “How’d you want me to do it. I won’t do nothing ‘til you tell me.”

“Is that a promise?” Eggsy won’t be able to resist. He wants to hear the words in his lover’s mouth, fed into his ear while he sprawls, an idle voluptuary, across _his_ bed.

“Uh, might be.” The boy is maddening.

“Well, is it or isn’t it?” He can almost hear him thinking and taps his finger against the arm of the chair briefly before asking, “Where are your hands?”

A whispering static fills Harry’s ears, presumably caused by Eggsy lifting his head and peering down at himself, the sheets or gown dragging over the mic on his earphones.

“One’s on my thigh. The other’s just next to me.”

“Tie the gown and cover yourself.” Eggsy obeys, probably, the whispering sound signifying further movement. It stops. “Put both of your hands behind your head.” When it’s quiet again, Harry asks, “Have you done it?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, you can start by telling me what you imagine us doing when you masturbate.” It was close to a miracle that he’d managed that sentence without his voice wavering.

“Shit, Harry, loadsa things.”

“One will suffice. We’ll go from there.”

“Um, I dunno. I guess I’d… well…” He breaks off but tries again. “You’d be… we’d be getting off and— How’s this fair? I suck at this! Just tell me what you’d do if you was here.”

“Hardly fair if I have to do all the talking.” Eggsy will get into the spirit of it, once he’s jumped this first hurdle; he’s a confident lad and, as with anything, once he defeats his nerves he’ll be brilliant. This initial difficulty isn’t surprising – Eggsy’s vocabulary doesn’t usually stretch further than the f-word when he’s horny.

“You’re better with words.” There’s some truth to that, although it doesn’t mean Harry doesn’t enjoy listening to Eggsy talk, ramble, vent, effuse about his latest solo mission or, according to current developments, fantasise into his ear from another continent, the night before an important mission.

There’s only one thing for it. For Eggsy to open up, he’ll need an incentive. “Suppose I want to touch myself while _you_ talk?” And he really, really does.

There’s a weighty silence from Eggsy’s end before he responds, voice raw and serious. “Do you?”

“Tell you what, let’s make a deal. You describe, in adequate detail, what we’re getting up to in your head, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing at my end.”

“Fuck okay,” Eggsy blurts. “Your mouth’s on me.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Not good enough. “Tell me how it would feel if my mouth were on you, right now. On your neck, for instance.”

“Like a vampire?”

Harry chuckles. “If you like.” He’d pictured a kiss, even some tongue, but a hard bite is perfectly acceptable.

Eggsy’s voice filters through a distinct smile, each word turning up at the edges. “Mmm, proper good.”

“Eggsy, I’ll need something more substantial than ‘proper good’ for anything to happen my end.”

Encouraged, Eggsy starts again. “You don’t bite me hard enough to hurt but like, I know you could, if you wanted, and that’s hot as fuck.” He wets his lips, the distinct slide of his tongue close to the mic pooling heat in Harry’s crotch. “And you could hold me down too, do whatever you wanted, and I’d just have to take it ‘cause…”

Harry isn’t sure if the trailing off is due to embarrassment or distraction. “Go on.”

“It’s hard.”

“You’ve already informed me of that.”

“Nah, I mean, _this_ is.”

“We can stop if you’d—”

“No! It’s just hard to think when you’re… _listening_.” He says it like it’s a dirty word. Chance would be a fine thing.

“You’re doing well, Eggsy. Forget I’m here. You’re alone, relaxed, a hand down your trousers - what might you think about?”

“You really wanna open my wank bank, Harry?”

Harry closes his eyes and conceals a smile with the back of his hand. “I can’t say I’m not intrigued.”

“Well, sometimes I think…” He draws in a deep, steadying breath, composing himself. “Okay, so, we’re on your sofa and I’m on your lap.”

Harry envisages it and doesn’t interrupt, wouldn’t dare to now he’s finally getting what he wants. His fingers twitch on his thigh, idling along his trouser pleat.

“We’re getting off all wet and slow and like, your hand’s between my legs. Oh, and you’re dressed up all smart, and I’m _butt-arse_ naked.” He’s breathing louder now, getting carried away. “You’re fingering me really slowly which is just” —he puffs out a breath, unable to find the words— “amazing.”

Sliding his fly down—thumb pressing the zip pull, deadening the sound—Harry traces the shape of his thickening cock through the soft cotton of his boxers. Hearing Eggsy talk like this, slowly letting his guard down, is surprisingly alluring, his words provoking both his mind and body. Eggsy is normally responsive, answering Harry's questions rather than asking his own, agreeing to Harry's suggestions or wrinkling his nose at them. Eggy's the type to drive himself half mad with lust instead of acting on his desires or asking Harry to fulfil them. If any of that is due to a misapprehension that Harry prefers to be the one in the driving seat, Harry will do as much as he can to put Eggsy right.

“Then, I’m riding your lap, your hands on my waist. You’re looking up at me, watching me, cool as a cucumber. We end up on the floor, you fucking me doggy-style, doing that thing where you hold my hair real tight so I can’t move my head.” Panting into the mic, he asks, “You jacking off yet?” which is a little ambitious—and clearly what Eggsy would be doing if he hadn't half-promised he wouldn't—but Harry will catch up.

“I opened my fly when you mentioned you were naked. Now I’m rubbing myself through my boxers.” And how sublime it had felt doing so while Eggsy waxed lyrical, overcoming his initial fear and embarrassment.

“Fucking hell, Harry. You hard, yeah?”

“Indeed. Are your hands still behind your head?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Anything else in that bank?” It would be ideal if Eggsy withdrew his balance all in one go, told him everything without stopping. He’ll have to coax it out slowly, though, in small instalments, and he’s more than happy to, even if it takes all night.

“Shitloads. Dunno if you’ll want to hear ‘em all.”

“Might I have a teaser or two? I can vote if you like, help narrow it down?”

“’Kay. Well, I love the thought of watching you get a suit fitted. Like, all the measuring and stuff.”

“Next. That’s not as much fun for me.” However morale-boosting listening to him describing his physical charms might be, he’s more invested in hearing about Eggsy’s sexual fantasies.

“What about us having a bath together?”

“You’re getting warmer.”

“You watching someone else fuck me?”

“A little colder, please.” Though that was one to come back to later.

“Me sucking you off somewhere that ain't that private?”

“Hmm… interesting. Would you elaborate?” Eggsy has an exquisite mouth and this scenario has crossed Harry’s mind before, albeit fleetingly. No doubt Eggsy’s take on it will be far more adventurous than the back seat of Harry's Kingsman-outfitted black cab.

“It happens when it’s not really a good time,” Eggsy says, diving in. “Like, people are around, or they might see us. Maybe,” he says with a soft laugh—he’s biting his lip and Harry _knows_ how that sound looks on Eggsy’s mouth; being unable to see it aches— “maybe I’m under the boardroom table at the tailor’s, you sitting at the head, getting head.”

“How rebellious of me,” Harry says, closing his eyes to visualise the scandalous scene within those green walls. He’ll let Eggsy lead the action; all he’s doing is set dressing.

“I know it’d never happen, and it don’t make sense…”

“It doesn’t have to, it’s a fantasy.” That’s the point, essentially, and it’s an honour to listen to Eggsy reeling off like this.

“So, like, I’m on my hands and knees under the table. Your chair’s pushed in so you can’t even see me, but you know I’m there. You’re being a boring git and I’m trying to get a rise out of you, make you fuck up your paperwork or leave it or something. I unzip your fly, pull your cock out, and you don’t even stop writing.”

Harry wonders if he could ever be so cruel, even to get Eggsy worked up. These stories may lack a certain details, momentum directed by Eggsy’s increasing excitement, but they’re nothing but captivating. Freeing himself from his boxers is a blessed relief, the coolness of the air-conditioned room a pleasant relief to the heat that’s built up under the layers of his clothes. It’s easy to imagine the feel of Eggsy’s mouth when he encloses his cock in a damp, hot palm.

“I suck you when you’re soft, tonguing you all over, and you get hard in my mouth, giving me plenty to work with, you know? And someone might even come in, stick their head round the door, and you answer ‘em, say you’re busy or something, and don’t lose your cool for a second.”

“I’m a professional.” Harry rides his hand along his length, up and down, unhurried, gentle, keeping himself pleasantly stiff. The exchange rate of their verbal currency has leapt in his favour. Eggsy is giving it his all now, internal doors unlocked, flung wide open while Harry listens, enchanted.

“You are, a fucking pro. You don’t make a sound, don’t stop writing, typing, whatever. No one knows you’ve got your protégé between your legs, giving you the blowjob of your life, not even those dusty old portraits on the wall, ‘cause you’re just so fucking chill about it.”

He’ll never look at the portraits of former Arthurs and prominent Kingsman knights in quite the same way again. No great loss.

“When I start licking the end of your cock, hardly touching, you shove your hand under the table, push my head down and” —he swallows thickly— “shoot straight down my throat. God, Harry, can I touch myself yet?”

“No, not yet.” Hopefully, Eggsy won’t notice how breathless he’s become since he last spoke.

Eggsy admonishes him, rather desperately: “You ain’t said what you’re doing in ages.”

It’s an excellent observation, one Harry hoped Eggsy wouldn’t make for a while because he’s really starting to enjoy listening to fantasies that are fast replacing his own. But it’s only fair that he should fulfil his end of the bargain. “I’m circling my thumb over the head of my cock. It’s an unworthy substitute for your tongue I have to say.”

Eggsy sobs, breath ragged as he curses under it. The glorious image of him arching up for friction, pitching a tent of jacquard silk, makes Harry’s head spin. Eggsy will leak into the fabric and spoil it; Harry doesn’t give a damn.

“And, for future reference,” Harry adds, “I’d never stay silent under such conditions. You’re remarkably good at sucking my cock.”

“‘Good’?” Eggsy scoffs, nowhere near the puddle of praise-hungry moans Harry expected. “Thought ‘good’ weren’t enough for you?”

“Magnificent, then. Glorious. Verging on sublime. Fucking brilliant, essentially.”

“That’s more like it.” Eggsy laughs before his voice turns serious. “I’ve got another one. Not sure you’ll be into it, though.”

“Try me.”

“Just ‘cause I’ve thought it don’t mean I expect it or nothing though, yeah?”

“Understood.” If he’s gone as far as slapping a disclaimer on this one, God knows what it’ll be.

“So, all your dapper shit’s gone. You’re naked. I’m on top of you, and… I’m gonna fuck you.”

Harry’s head falls back against the armchair as the words sink in. “Where are we?” he asks, indicating to Eggsy that this is an acceptable road to go down.

“In this bed. You’re clinging to the bedframe, cheeks all pink, messy sex hair all over the place, drooling like a dirty old man, and I ain’t even in you yet. But you want it. You want it so bad. And you’re gonna get it.”

Harry swallows. Eggsy's words are like a bucket of warm water tipped over his head.

Right.

Suddenly speechless, immobilised, he emits what he can only hope is an encouraging noise, cock standing rigid in his lap beside his useless hand.

“You’re on your back, legs spread open for me, gagging for it.” Eggsy speaks quickly, as though it's dangerous to allow the words to linger. “And you ain’t no gentleman when I’m fingering you, biting your neck, making you moan like a bitch. You’re begging me: ‘Yes, Eggsy, _please_ , Eggsy’, your voice going all high like it does just before you come.

I bury my face in your crotch, your legs over my shoulders, and suck you off while you fuck yourself on my fingers, until you’re so close you have to beg me to stop instead.”

When Eggsy pauses for breath, Harry remembers he needs to breathe too, unless he wants to risk passing out within the next ten seconds. His heart is pounding hard enough he can feel his pulse in his fingertips, his thighs, the very core of his cock. He’s sunk into the chair, limp and powerless, wired into Eggsy’s fantasy like some kind of out-of-body experience. Eggsy’s earlier vulnerability has been replaced with an assertiveness that renders Harry helpless in a way he has not experienced since… ever. It’s astonishing.

“I take my time watching my cock going in you,” Eggsy continues, skipping some detail. “I have to hold you still ‘cause you don’t stop fidgeting, pin your wrists down, tell you off. Once I’m all the way in, you tell me you want it hard, promise you can take it. You feel so good… look so good.

You keep asking for more, ‘til I’m proper pounding you, balls deep, and you’re making a right racket, voice breaking, shouting the house down ‘cause you love being on the end of my cock. I have to put my hand over your mouth to shut you up, stop you waking up every frigid posh fucker in Kensington, but you like that even more, doing what I say for a change, getting royally fucked, getting _ruined_ , by your boy…

Just when I think you can’t look any better, you jizz all over yourself, almost pass out ‘cause I’m just that good. And then, when I’m kissing you, and you’re all weak and writhing under me, I come in you, proper deep, and it’s just… fucking perfect.”

“Oh,” Harry says, though it’s more a dumbfounded, shuddering sigh than an actual word, and he swallows so hard Eggsy must have heard it.

“Fuck, Harry, tell me what you’re doing! Are you wanking?”

Harry is physically incapable of answering Eggsy’s question immediately. After a beat, he manages. “How I’ll concentrate tomorrow, after that, I dread to think.” Sitting up a little, he gathers his wits and takes hold of his cock again; it’s so sensitive he can’t help but clench his jaw. “And yes, I’m touching myself and, as you’ve been exceptionally patient, you should too.”

The mic hisses as Eggsy scrabbles, drawling a deep curse under his breath once he finally gets hold of himself. Then, he’s breathing at a steady pace, most likely led by the movement of his hand. “Is there like, even a tiny chance you’d ever let me do any of that?”

“More than a chance.”

“Fuck _me_!” Eggsy says, sucking air through what sounds like gritted teeth, a deep groan following, muffled as if by the pillow.

Listening intently to every small sound Eggsy makes, Harry throbs in his fist's loose grip, close to coming. For the first time, he wishes he’d taken Eggsy up on his offer: let him balance his glasses on the bedside table so he could watch the show as well as hear it. Maybe he’d ask him to put them on and sit before the mirror, so he can enjoy Eggsy’s view too. But he has enough to think about, with Eggsy’s detailed fantasy fresh in his mind, and his own mind’s eye furnishing him with the image of Eggsy lying there, stretched out on his bed, flushed, arching into his own fist.

“Mmm, Harry,” Eggsy moans, that slight vulnerability returning to his voice.

“Which one are you thinking about?”

“Last one.”

Eggsy breathes hard, the rhythmical sound sending vibrations through Harry’s earpiece. The sensation slithers over his temples, the back of his neck, then up over his crown. He digs his fingertips into the chair’s leather arm while his other hand rides his cock from root to tip, matching the pace set by Eggsy’s panting. If Eggsy was here, kissing him weak, he’d grab Harry’s hair, his shoulders, clutch his face with both hands; his hands are always greedy, always sneaking their way beneath his clothes, warm and soft and delicate somehow. It should be Eggsy’s hand on his cock right now.

All they’re doing is listening to the other breathe, a thousand miles apart, and it’s so intimate they might as well be beside each other, skin on skin.

Harry wishes he could replay Eggsy’s words verbatim, but the scenes are ingrained in his head, the buds of Eggsy’s fantasies blooming into something bigger and brighter:

…Eggsy’s weight above him, his sharp hipbones denting Harry’s inner thighs while he’s impaled on his thick, beautiful cock, entirely at his mercy…

…his own reflection in the conference table’s highly-polished mahogany, face twitching while he attempts to conceal what’s happening beneath it, the room’s frigid silence interrupted by the slick, improper sound of Eggsy’s hot, lapping tongue…

…grabbing Eggsy’s backside while he straddles his lap, hands stroking across the solid, untanned curve of his buttocks, a finger sneaking between them to feel Eggsy split and full…

Sweat sticks Harry’s shirt to the small of his back, his mind consumed by nothing but Eggsy. The soundtrack of his staggered breaths in his ear, high-pitched whimpers blending in, is a delicious focus; he anchors to it as his head lolls back, liquid bliss undulating through his every atom. The fantasies blur together, channel into a burst of heat and light and pleasure until the sensations hit breaking point and he's coming hard into his cupped palm, whispering Eggsy’s name.

Eggsy gasps. “ _Harry_. Tell me - when you’re gonna…”

“I have.” Exhausted, Harry sinks even lower in the chair, basking in the afterglow. “Just now.”

“Oh my god.” Eggsy’s moan sounds pained. Perhaps he wanted to reach his end first, or he can’t quite get there. “Talk to me, Harry. Please. Need your voice.” It’s the latter.

“I’m here,” Harry says, wondering where he’s finding the energy to speak or reach blindly for tissues. “And when I get back, we’re not leaving that bed for days, do you hear? We’re going to call in sick, live off takeaways, and fuck each other senseless. How does that sound?”

The promise has the right effect. Eggsy’s drawn-out, pathetic wail is loud enough to distort the audio feed before trailing into the soft, gulping sounds he makes after climaxing that always stand the hairs on Harry’s nape to attention. Then, there’s quiet, Eggsy calming, coming down. He’ll look beautiful now: that heavy languor to his limbs, mouth slack, lips wet and parted, eyes rolled back like he’s high. The bedroom will smell of him, the silk gown and cotton sheets warmed by his skin. Christ, if only he could kiss him, hold him, feel his weight draping over him, push his nose into that butterscotch hair and just breathe him in.

“Well,” Eggsy says, breathless but always faster to recover, “how was that for you?”

“I don’t think I could miss you more than I do now.” Harry would kick himself for his candidness, but he’s too tired. The hotel bed calls to him, tempting him with its plump duvet and mountain of pillows. It could only look more inviting if Eggsy was lying in it.

“Always knew you were a soppy bastard.” Of course he did. “We’re definitely doing that, yeah?”

“Which one?”

“All of ‘em.” He’ll be the death of him. With a bit of luck, it’ll be a long, drawn-out death.

“Absolutely.” After a moment of shared, happy silence, Harry tries to conceal a yawn but Eggsy picks up on it.

“What time is it there?”

Cracking an eye open, Harry glances at his watch. “Just gone midnight.” At that revelation, he envies Eggsy’s proximity to the Greenwich meridian line.

“Better let you get some kip, eh? Good luck tomorrow. You’ll smash it.”

To remind him, Harry asks, “Are you sure you’ll cope with getting out of bed at five AM?” He’ll offer to call him if not, or assign the mission to Merlin, codename: Wake Up Eggsy.

“Yeah, totally! Absolutely. One hundred percent.” His overenthusiasm is enough to wake Harry up a little, if only because he doesn’t believe it one iota. “It is being recorded, though, innit?”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Harry laughs into his palm.


End file.
